Pedicure Shame FAIL

Okay,  I know it is June 7th and everyone on the planet has had a nice summer  pedicure for at least a month, but my life is complicated and nail places are generally closed on Mondays.  I bite my nails like a psycho so I only need to get my feet done - and only for the summer months.  Why pay good money to have your toenails painted and then stick them in  wool socks?  You tell me.

Today I decided to run some errands and found an open nail salon. They take walk-ins, and seconds after walking in the door ( and picking my usual way-too-pale polish color) I was in the comfy chair soaking my feet.  (I was glad that I had buffed the feet down a little before taking a shower this morning, it would have been much worse.)  I wish I had brought something to read; there was little there to choose from but MODERN BRIDE (shoot me) or other vapid chick magazines.

The nail technicians start chattering in their native language -  I was an English major, not a linguistic specialist, so I can't tell you which language -  something Cambodian-esque,  maybe Vietnamese.  I always get uncomfortable because I think they are talking about me.  (The  Seinfeld show did a memorable episode on this very phenomenon.) Everyone thinks they are talking about them, right?  Well, I chastised myself for being so self-involved. They were probably talking about where they were going after work, right?

Wrong.  The lovely young woman working on my feet turned to her co-worker and said, "unintelligible, unintelligibleunintelligibleunintelligible HOME DEPOT unintelligible unintelligibleunintelligible."     The co-worker burst out laughing.   Want my translation?  "Hey, this woman has callouses like concrete. She need to go to HOME DEPOT and get a belt sander for these feet!"

Well, sooooorrrry.  I rejoice in being past the age where I have  to care that much about what my damn feet look like.  I wear it as a badge of honor that I no longer read "womens" magazines, wear shoes with heels that ruin my feet, or care about what purse is in what season.  I buy what I like, I wear what I want, and frequently run errands without makeup. OOohhh rogue!   Oh, please.

This is the most liberating phase of my life. I'm not really sure why or how we all start out innocent and by  8th grade we can't leave the house because we are sooooooo ugly.  If  I was this self-aware in my 20's I'd be running BP and that damn oil well would have been capped 20 minutes after it blew up.  Then I would treat myself to a coffee coolata.   Suck on that, fashionistas.

PS - that is not a picture of my foot, but I wish it was. I'd love to be able to flip people off with my toes.